Suder by Percival Everett

and walk over to the singer. I stand there right in front of him and he stops in the middle of a song.
    â€œYeah?” he asks.
    â€œYou know ‘Ornithology’?”
    â€œNo, who’s it by?”
    â€œCharlie Parker.”
    He looks at me, puzzled-like.
    â€œCharlie Parker, the saxophone player.”
    â€œI don’t know him or the song.”
    â€œI’ll play it for you.” I walk to where Sid is sitting. People in the tavern are grumbling: “Hey, what happened to the music?” “What’s the story here?” “Let’s have a song!”
    â€œWhat you doing, boy?” Sid asks.
    â€œI’m gonna play the song for him.” I pick up my phonograph and record off the floor. I walk back to the middle of the floor and I’m looking around for an outlet.
    â€œHey, friend,” the singer says, “why don’t you wait until I finish this set? I’ll listen to it then.”
    â€œWell, I don’t see an outlet. I guess I’ll just have to play it on my horn.” I put the mouthpiece to my lips and start blowing. I’m making a lot of honking sounds.
    â€œSomebody make that drunk sit down!” someone shouts.
    â€œTake that weapon away from him,” says another.
    The singer pulls on my arm. “You’re upsetting everybody.”
    I stop playing and look into all the faces, annoyed and angry faces. I take my things and walk back to the bar.
    Sid slaps my back. “That was pitiful.”
    The bartender puts a beer in front of me. “Ain’t you Craig Suder?” he asks.
    I look at him for a long second and then I get up and walk out of the place.
    Sid follows me out. “You okay?”
    â€œYeah.”
    Sid slaps me on the shoulder with the back of his hand as two women thick with makeup walk past us into the bar. “You see the way she looked at me?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œShe’s got eyes for me.”
    â€œYou’re imagining things. Let’s go.”
    â€œNo, no, I’ve got to check this out.” Sid starts back into the bar. “Come on.”
    â€œYou go on. I think I’ll head back to the boat.”
    â€œSuit yourself.” He disappears into the tavern.
    The whole house felt like it was shaking. I crawled over Martin and his bed to the window and saw a big truck parked out front.
    â€œWhat is it?” Martin asked, sitting up in bed.
    â€œA truck.” I slid into my slippers and ran downstairs.
    Ma was standing at the open door in her coat, rubbing a dish towel over her hands.
    â€œWhat is it?” I asked and I looked out into the yard and saw Daddy approaching the truck from his office. I ran out into the yard. “Daddy, what is it?”
    Martin was out of the house now in pants and tee-shirt.
    The men from the truck were pulling a great big piano out and down the ramp.
    â€œWhat’s the piano for?” Martin asked.
    â€œIt’s Mr. Powell’s,” Daddy said. “He’s going to be staying with us for a while.”
    â€œWhy?” Martin asked.
    Daddy watched the piano move past us toward the house. “He’s taking a little rest here.” Daddy turned and walked back to his office.
    Martin and I watched as the movers removed the legs of the piano and slipped it into the house. The big grand piano took up most of the living room and we had to detour clean around it to get to the stairs.
    Martin and I sat on the stairs, looking down at the piano. “Pretty neat, huh?” I said.
    Martin didn’t say anything.
    â€œYou don’t like Mr. Powell, do you?”
    â€œI like him okay.”
    Ma came into the living room and started polishing the piano.
    â€œWhere are you going?” Daddy asked Ma.
    Ma had her pocketbook and was by the door. “I’m going to a meeting.”
    â€œWhat sort of meeting?”
    â€œDr. McCoy’s Bible group.”
    Daddy’s palm flew up against the door and he